We reach a place where we can see the sand once again. I’m not sure if it’s the way we came exactly, but it can’t be too far off from it. I haven’t let go of Lian’s hand, but as we slow down I loosen my grip. I’m all too aware of the lingering feeling of a small child’s hand gripping my wrist, and I’d hate to remind him of that while I’m only trying to comfort him. And to be perfectly honest, I’m comforting myself as well.

I turn to face him, and he looks as scared as I feel.

“What was that?!” He yells, still not letting go of my hand. I shake my head slowly. I don’t think I can stand to make sound myself, after that. He takes my other hand in his, and I squeeze them for a moment. “I can’t believe the first other people we met tried to drag us into a freaky dancing cult…” He takes one of his hands back to run it through his hair.

“Are you alright?” He asks finally, looking at me fully for the first time. “You look scared… of course you’re scared, I’m scared.” He wipes his hand on his pant leg and grabs my hand once again. He’s talking to fill the silence that the music left. I understand that. He was exposed to it for longer than I was when that little boy grabbed him around the waist.

“Anne. Hey. Anne. It’s alright. We got out of there, right?” He asks me, but I don’t know that it is alright. Days, we spent days hoping to see people, and the first people we saw were crazy possessed people. Is this really what happens when you die? Is this the afterlife they wanted? “Anne. I need you to answer me.” He says, and an edge of something creeps into his voice.

“Not alright…” I manage to say, forcing the words out of my unwilling throat. I hate the feeling of sound coming from myself, I hate the feeling of sound at all. He takes such a deep breath that his hands rise and fall in mine slightly.

“Anne. We’re alone. They’re gone.” Alone… Alone is something I don’t want. I thought I liked being alone, but now I realize I was never alone. My mother was always there, there in the next room, or somewhere in the house. She was always close by and would come if I needed her. At school, even if it was lonely, at least people were there. They existed.

Here there is only Lian, and me. Those dancers aren’t people. They have music pumping through their veins, and it’s terrifying. Artists claim they live and breathe music, but they can’t understand how it feels. The music takes you. The music kills you.

Lian squeezes my hands softly. I realize I’m sobbing, but I can’t stop. It’s a very animal sound, with no beat, no rhythm. It’s nothing like the music, and it’s the only sound I think I can make. I know Lian must be uncomfortable, but I don’t think I can move without letting this out. I squeeze his hands, and then I stop because I feel like the strength has left me. That’s all I could do.

For a moment, we just sit there, hand in hand. I sob, loudly and violently enough that I can’t read his face or hear him. I wonder how I’m able to cry. I haven’t drunk anything, will I become dried out like a mummy if I keep this up? I am dead, after all. Frantically, I touch my eyes, wondering if the wetness I feel on my cheeks is all in my head. But it isn’t. I’m crying, real tears.

Eventually I slump over onto his shoulder, my eyes still squeezed shut. The sobs have stopped shaking me, but I still take an unsteady breath every now and again. When I was alive, I was never one for hysterics. What happened happened, and a lot of people called me cold for it. On the day of my death, I didn’t cry for my grandmother. I guess I never really had a proper fear of death. But now I’m here, dead, and the thought of a second death terrifies me.

“Lian,” I mumble, trying to make sound from inside my throat. He lets out a questioning hum, squeezing my hand slightly. “Do you think we could sleep?” I ask, my words fading in and out. He seems to have understood me though, and he nods. I feel exhausted, but there’s one last thing. “Are we far enough away?” Away is the loudest word I’ve managed yet, and it’s still library appropriate sound levels.

“I can keep watch while you sleep, don’t worry.” Lian says. I want to ask if he’s tired. I want to ask him to forgive me for crying like that, and ask why he isn’t as upset as me. I want to ask if he’s afraid of losing himself. Of dying again. But I don’t think those are the right questions to ask, and I’m very tired.

I manage to give his hand a squeeze before slumping off his shoulder and onto the ground. I don’t even bother to take my jacket off and use it as a blanket. I lay there, suddenly finding comfort in the absence of rhythm. I sleep.